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The Stockholm Nonstop
Ere, many bygone days past and like my father before me, I was an airline pilot. I flew for a regional for 2 years and no sooner had I upgraded to the left seat of a screaming, Garrett-powered rocket, than the Majors were hiring. Thus, I poured into my Major Indoc class with a river of wide-eyed young fellows with similar aspirations, hearing the good and happy words from a dizzying array of suited, wise old heads who proclaimed, "Hang on boys, we haven't even hired our 1991 captains yet!"
This was 1989. I think that's the first time I even knew what a "career expectation" was and believe me, it was both joyous and terrifying for one who had not even begun to master the craft to contemplate a life of respect, riches and working 10 days a month. But it was out there and it couldn't be taken back. However, I was so worried about the lurking 9-light trip on the electrical panel of a 727 to worry too much about contract language, merger rights, seniority numbers, bidding pitfalls and union politics. That changed almost immediately. On the crew bus for my first unsupervised trip, my hat gingerly perched on my freshly barbered head, a forty-something flight attendant grinned at me and said in excellent Pittsburghese, "That's a fancy new uniform you got there!" I smiled back. Then she said, "You should take a picture for your mom, sweetie." In the crew room, I fidgeted, looking for my captain so that I could introduce myself, wondering with dawning horror if my E6-B was still on the hotel dresser (I had been practicing conversions) when I noticed a clot of pilots solemnly gathered around a bulletin board. There were muttered curses. A red-faced first officer who I judged to be a decade older than me grunted, "If those #$^^ing ******** pukes think I'm gonna be jerking gear for them the rest of my life, they're nuts!" I edged closer, surreptitiously inspecting the shine on my shoes (the FOM was specific about this) and noticed a long list in dot-matrix format stapled to the cork. It was a seniority list, I found, one that included the pilots of a like-sized airline that we had just merged with. Nobody was happy. Among the men around the board was my captain, and I was to later find out, the red-faced F/O was the copilot. After shaking hands and giving my prepared remarks in a quavering voice, I retired to the bathroom, and as I was getting rid of the last of my breakfast, I noticed the scrawled invective, frowning stickers and spleen encircling the stall from top to bottom. It appeared nobody liked their job. Hated the place. Sodom and Gomorrah all round. Moneychangers in the Temple. Later, from my vantage point behind the two gentlemen conducting the aviating portion of my first flight, I was regaled by the both of them comparing their Rolex watches, new cars, girlfriends and most recent vacations. Occasionally they looked out the window. Occasionally. Nobody asked me any questions. I was just amazed I could afford a 1-bedroom studio without roommates and would have been embarrassed to admit my ride was a 1953 Ford pickup with a caved-in fender, recapped tires and a copious oil leak. I move through these forums like an old house I used to live in, with yellowing newspapers strewn about on the floors. I pick them up and glance at the stories they contain, drop them back on the floor and sigh. I flew with a few pretty good people over the next 12 years. Made one lasting friendship. Most however were angry or resigned. Or both. I couldn't identify with a majority of them, or most of the other employees, for that matter. In those days, the mechanics, agents and flight attendants seemed to hate me no matter what the employee number declared, as I was branded A Pilot. Endured a short furlough. Got married and started a family, then lived in constant fear of being able to provide for them as the world changed, apparently for the worse, as far as airline pilots went. In a company that had merged thrice as I was coming on, everyone seemed to have an agenda and wanted to vent - a teeming mass of indignation and uncertainty. And stuff. Comparing stuff. Look at my stuff! Before iPhones, guys carried these photo albums depicting all their stuff in Kodacolor. Or wore it. Remember nugget watches? More mergers, arbitrations, strike preparedness. Politics. Furloughs. Union recalls. Liars lying and fools listening to the lies and lying to themselves about what the liars meant. The second home I purchased had an escape clause in the contract that would let me out as the closing date coincided with the flight attendants' cooling off period ending. Another merger failed and everyone went nuts. My mom died suddenly. Then my dog. Shortly thereafter, my back yard neighbor, an American pilot, one day his wife was brutally shot by the so-called "DC Sniper" as she was leaving a craft store (she lived). My wife was in the same parking lot and heard the report and thought a car had backfired. My kids were with her. Across the cul-de-sac where we lived, my neighbor was the lead FBI agent assigned to the nut job sending anthrax through the mail. 9/11. Horror and chaos. I had just relinquished my captain's seat when they announced 1000 pilots would be furloughed immediately. I didn't need the list to know that while safe for the moment (by this time, I could tell you with certainty my calculated FAE at age 60) I would be deep into the reserve list as a copilot and they wouldn't be finished: that's just all they could handle for downgrades and training. There would be more. Many more. I had seen enough. Realized it wasn't dad's world OR his airline anymore. Everyone was grim. Simmering divisions within our group exploded. We took huge pay and benefit cuts in order to "save" the company with the absolute promise that if we did so, the no-furlough clause would keep everyone working. (Note: anytime anyone makes declarative statements in a time of uncertainty is lying, so assume the opposite. Works like a charm.) Thus began a life apart from the Great Attrition. I still fly for a living. I remember during Indoc back in 1989, we were invited to attend a dinner that ALPA sponsored for new hires. It was billed as a collegial "get to know you" and informal affair at a local steakhouse. What I didn't know is that we would be shut up into a private dining room and handed a union check-off card and asked to sign on, as the reps circulated and watched the proceedings in a vaguely predatory way. Nobody refused membership. It was a little unnerving but I was new to things (all of 23!) and figured if everyone was doing it, it couldn't be bad. It was during that meal that we were told for our infinitesimally small contribution (again, in very declarative terms) that nowhere in the world would we be paid and taken care of, as a professional body, better than as part of this family. Together we were mighty. The great collective at work, so to speak. Some time in 2004, one of my colleagues, a man for whom I had immense respect and who had been my DC-9 line instructor as a new copilot, took his own life when he realized his pension had been terminated 4 years from his scheduled retirement. You see, he had been promised this alone, above all else was sacrosanct and his contribution to the cause would ensure his long term security. In the years since 2002, I have made my own way and thus my own happiness - or misfortune. I could no longer point to the failings of others for my situation. Couldn't rage against the machine. Didn't head to the airport ticked off or strangling on the fear of the next system bid result - or praying maybe this year I would have Christmas off. Negotiated for myself. Actually had to learn my trade rather than depending on some arcane work rule or labor division to keep me in a painted line of ineptitude. Nine tenths of what I read here is the result of the fear of the unknown, authored by people just like me. Think about it. |
Originally Posted by likenotomorow
(Post 2190329)
Ere, many bygone days past and like my father before me, I was an airline pilot. I flew for a regional for 2 years and no sooner had I upgraded to the left seat of a screaming, Garrett-powered rocket, than the Majors were hiring. Thus, I poured into my Major Indoc class with a river of wide-eyed young fellows with similar aspirations, hearing the good and happy words from a dizzying array of suited, wise old heads who proclaimed, "Hang on boys, we haven't even hired our 1991 captains yet!"
This was 1989. I think that's the first time I even knew what a "career expectation" was and believe me, it was both joyous and terrifying for one who had not even begun to master the craft to contemplate a life of respect, riches and working 10 days a month. But it was out there and it couldn't be taken back. However, I was so worried about the lurking 9-light trip on the electrical panel of a 727 to worry too much about contract language, merger rights, seniority numbers, bidding pitfalls and union politics. That changed almost immediately. On the crew bus for my first unsupervised trip, my hat gingerly perched on my freshly barbered head, a forty-something flight attendant grinned at me and said in excellent Pittsburghese, "That's a fancy new uniform you got there!" I smiled back. Then she said, "You should take a picture for your mom, sweetie." In the crew room, I fidgeted, looking for my captain so that I could introduce myself, wondering with dawning horror if my E6-B was still on the hotel dresser (I had been practicing conversions) when I noticed a clot of pilots solemnly gathered around a bulletin board. There were muttered curses. A red-faced first officer who I judged to be a decade older than me grunted, "If those #$^^ing ******** pukes think I'm gonna be jerking gear for them the rest of my life, they're nuts!" I edged closer, surreptitiously inspecting the shine on my shoes (the FOM was specific about this) and noticed a long list in dot-matrix format stapled to the cork. It was a seniority list, I found, one that included the pilots of a like-sized airline that we had just merged with. Nobody was happy. Among the men around the board was my captain, and I was to later find out, the red-faced F/O was the copilot. After shaking hands and giving my prepared remarks in a quavering voice, I retired to the bathroom, and as I was getting rid of the last of my breakfast, I noticed the scrawled invective, frowning stickers and spleen encircling the stall from top to bottom. It appeared nobody liked their job. Hated the place. Sodom and Gomorrah all round. Moneychangers in the Temple. Later, from my vantage point behind the two gentlemen conducting the aviating portion of my first flight, I was regaled by the both of them comparing their Rolex watches, new cars, girlfriends and most recent vacations. Occasionally they looked out the window. Occasionally. Nobody asked me any questions. I was just amazed I could afford a 1-bedroom studio without roommates and would have been embarrassed to admit my ride was a 1953 Ford pickup with a caved-in fender, recapped tires and a copious oil leak. I move through these forums like an old house I used to live in, with yellowing newspapers strewn about on the floors. I pick them up and glance at the stories they contain, drop them back on the floor and sigh. I flew with a few pretty good people over the next 12 years. Made one lasting friendship. Most however were angry or resigned. Or both. I couldn't identify with a majority of them, or most of the other employees, for that matter. In those days, the mechanics, agents and flight attendants seemed to hate me no matter what the employee number declared, as I was branded A Pilot. Endured a short furlough. Got married and started a family, then lived in constant fear of being able to provide for them as the world changed, apparently for the worse, as far as airline pilots went. In a company that had merged thrice as I was coming on, everyone seemed to have an agenda and wanted to vent - a teeming mass of indignation and uncertainty. And stuff. Comparing stuff. Look at my stuff! Before iPhones, guys carried these photo albums depicting all their stuff in Kodacolor. Or wore it. Remember nugget watches? More mergers, arbitrations, strike preparedness. Politics. Furloughs. Union recalls. Liars lying and fools listening to the lies and lying to themselves about what the liars meant. The second home I purchased had an escape clause in the contract that would let me out as the closing date coincided with the flight attendants' cooling off period ending. Another merger failed and everyone went nuts. My mom died suddenly. Then my dog. Shortly thereafter, my back yard neighbor, an American pilot, one day his wife was brutally shot by the so-called "DC Sniper" as she was leaving a craft store (she lived). My wife was in the same parking lot and heard the report and thought a car had backfired. My kids were with her. Across the cul-de-sac where we lived, my neighbor was the lead FBI agent assigned to the nut job sending anthrax through the mail. 9/11. Horror and chaos. I had just relinquished my captain's seat when they announced 1000 pilots would be furloughed immediately. I didn't need the list to know that while safe for the moment (by this time, I could tell you with certainty my calculated FAE at age 60) I would be deep into the reserve list as a copilot and they wouldn't be finished: that's just all they could handle for downgrades and training. There would be more. Many more. I had seen enough. Realized it wasn't dad's world OR his airline anymore. Everyone was grim. Simmering divisions within our group exploded. We took huge pay and benefit cuts in order to "save" the company with the absolute promise that if we did so, the no-furlough clause would keep everyone working. (Note: anytime anyone makes declarative statements in a time of uncertainty is lying, so assume the opposite. Works like a charm.) Thus began a life apart from the Great Attrition. I still fly for a living. I remember during Indoc back in 1989, we were invited to attend a dinner that ALPA sponsored for new hires. It was billed as a collegial "get to know you" and informal affair at a local steakhouse. What I didn't know is that we would be shut up into a private dining room and handed a union check-off card and asked to sign on, as the reps circulated and watched the proceedings in a vaguely predatory way. Nobody refused membership. It was a little unnerving but I was new to things (all of 23!) and figured if everyone was doing it, it couldn't be bad. It was during that meal that we were told for our infinitesimally small contribution (again, in very declarative terms) that nowhere in the world would we be paid and taken care of, as a professional body, better than as part of this family. Together we were mighty. The great collective at work, so to speak. Some time in 2004, one of my colleagues, a man for whom I had immense respect and who had been my DC-9 line instructor as a new copilot, took his own life when he realized his pension had been terminated 4 years from his scheduled retirement. You see, he had been promised this alone, above all else was sacrosanct and his contribution to the cause would ensure his long term security. In the years since 2002, I have made my own way and thus my own happiness - or misfortune. I could no longer point to the failings of others for my situation. Couldn't rage against the machine. Didn't head to the airport ticked off or strangling on the fear of the next system bid result - or praying maybe this year I would have Christmas off. Negotiated for myself. Actually had to learn my trade rather than depending on some arcane work rule or labor division to keep me in a painted line of ineptitude. Nine tenths of what I read here is the result of the fear of the unknown, authored by people just like me. Think about it. Excellent sir. |
Did not know Hemmingway flew for a major. Superb.
|
Originally Posted by likenotomorow
(Post 2190329)
Ere, many bygone days past and like my father before me, I was an airline pilot. I flew for a regional for 2 years and no sooner had I upgraded to the left seat of a screaming, Garrett-powered rocket, than the Majors were hiring. Thus, I poured into my Major Indoc class with a river of wide-eyed young fellows with similar aspirations, hearing the good and happy words from a dizzying array of suited, wise old heads who proclaimed, "Hang on boys, we haven't even hired our 1991 captains yet!"
This was 1989. I think that's the first time I even knew what a "career expectation" was and believe me, it was both joyous and terrifying for one who had not even begun to master the craft to contemplate a life of respect, riches and working 10 days a month. But it was out there and it couldn't be taken back. However, I was so worried about the lurking 9-light trip on the electrical panel of a 727 to worry too much about contract language, merger rights, seniority numbers, bidding pitfalls and union politics. That changed almost immediately. On the crew bus for my first unsupervised trip, my hat gingerly perched on my freshly barbered head, a forty-something flight attendant grinned at me and said in excellent Pittsburghese, "That's a fancy new uniform you got there!" I smiled back. Then she said, "You should take a picture for your mom, sweetie." In the crew room, I fidgeted, looking for my captain so that I could introduce myself, wondering with dawning horror if my E6-B was still on the hotel dresser (I had been practicing conversions) when I noticed a clot of pilots solemnly gathered around a bulletin board. There were muttered curses. A red-faced first officer who I judged to be a decade older than me grunted, "If those #$^^ing ******** pukes think I'm gonna be jerking gear for them the rest of my life, they're nuts!" I edged closer, surreptitiously inspecting the shine on my shoes (the FOM was specific about this) and noticed a long list in dot-matrix format stapled to the cork. It was a seniority list, I found, one that included the pilots of a like-sized airline that we had just merged with. Nobody was happy. Among the men around the board was my captain, and I was to later find out, the red-faced F/O was the copilot. After shaking hands and giving my prepared remarks in a quavering voice, I retired to the bathroom, and as I was getting rid of the last of my breakfast, I noticed the scrawled invective, frowning stickers and spleen encircling the stall from top to bottom. It appeared nobody liked their job. Hated the place. Sodom and Gomorrah all round. Moneychangers in the Temple. Later, from my vantage point behind the two gentlemen conducting the aviating portion of my first flight, I was regaled by the both of them comparing their Rolex watches, new cars, girlfriends and most recent vacations. Occasionally they looked out the window. Occasionally. Nobody asked me any questions. I was just amazed I could afford a 1-bedroom studio without roommates and would have been embarrassed to admit my ride was a 1953 Ford pickup with a caved-in fender, recapped tires and a copious oil leak. I move through these forums like an old house I used to live in, with yellowing newspapers strewn about on the floors. I pick them up and glance at the stories they contain, drop them back on the floor and sigh. I flew with a few pretty good people over the next 12 years. Made one lasting friendship. Most however were angry or resigned. Or both. I couldn't identify with a majority of them, or most of the other employees, for that matter. In those days, the mechanics, agents and flight attendants seemed to hate me no matter what the employee number declared, as I was branded A Pilot. Endured a short furlough. Got married and started a family, then lived in constant fear of being able to provide for them as the world changed, apparently for the worse, as far as airline pilots went. In a company that had merged thrice as I was coming on, everyone seemed to have an agenda and wanted to vent - a teeming mass of indignation and uncertainty. And stuff. Comparing stuff. Look at my stuff! Before iPhones, guys carried these photo albums depicting all their stuff in Kodacolor. Or wore it. Remember nugget watches? More mergers, arbitrations, strike preparedness. Politics. Furloughs. Union recalls. Liars lying and fools listening to the lies and lying to themselves about what the liars meant. The second home I purchased had an escape clause in the contract that would let me out as the closing date coincided with the flight attendants' cooling off period ending. Another merger failed and everyone went nuts. My mom died suddenly. Then my dog. Shortly thereafter, my back yard neighbor, an American pilot, one day his wife was brutally shot by the so-called "DC Sniper" as she was leaving a craft store (she lived). My wife was in the same parking lot and heard the report and thought a car had backfired. My kids were with her. Across the cul-de-sac where we lived, my neighbor was the lead FBI agent assigned to the nut job sending anthrax through the mail. 9/11. Horror and chaos. I had just relinquished my captain's seat when they announced 1000 pilots would be furloughed immediately. I didn't need the list to know that while safe for the moment (by this time, I could tell you with certainty my calculated FAE at age 60) I would be deep into the reserve list as a copilot and they wouldn't be finished: that's just all they could handle for downgrades and training. There would be more. Many more. I had seen enough. Realized it wasn't dad's world OR his airline anymore. Everyone was grim. Simmering divisions within our group exploded. We took huge pay and benefit cuts in order to "save" the company with the absolute promise that if we did so, the no-furlough clause would keep everyone working. (Note: anytime anyone makes declarative statements in a time of uncertainty is lying, so assume the opposite. Works like a charm.) Thus began a life apart from the Great Attrition. I still fly for a living. I remember during Indoc back in 1989, we were invited to attend a dinner that ALPA sponsored for new hires. It was billed as a collegial "get to know you" and informal affair at a local steakhouse. What I didn't know is that we would be shut up into a private dining room and handed a union check-off card and asked to sign on, as the reps circulated and watched the proceedings in a vaguely predatory way. Nobody refused membership. It was a little unnerving but I was new to things (all of 23!) and figured if everyone was doing it, it couldn't be bad. It was during that meal that we were told for our infinitesimally small contribution (again, in very declarative terms) that nowhere in the world would we be paid and taken care of, as a professional body, better than as part of this family. Together we were mighty. The great collective at work, so to speak. Some time in 2004, one of my colleagues, a man for whom I had immense respect and who had been my DC-9 line instructor as a new copilot, took his own life when he realized his pension had been terminated 4 years from his scheduled retirement. You see, he had been promised this alone, above all else was sacrosanct and his contribution to the cause would ensure his long term security. In the years since 2002, I have made my own way and thus my own happiness - or misfortune. I could no longer point to the failings of others for my situation. Couldn't rage against the machine. Didn't head to the airport ticked off or strangling on the fear of the next system bid result - or praying maybe this year I would have Christmas off. Negotiated for myself. Actually had to learn my trade rather than depending on some arcane work rule or labor division to keep me in a painted line of ineptitude. Nine tenths of what I read here is the result of the fear of the unknown, authored by people just like me. Think about it. |
Words of wisdom indeed, and so eloquently penned. Kudos to you, sir!
|
Originally Posted by likenotomorow
(Post 2190329)
Ere, many bygone days past and like my father before me, I was an airline pilot. I flew for a regional for 2 years and no sooner had I upgraded to the left seat of a screaming, Garrett-powered rocket, than the Majors were hiring. Thus, I poured into my Major Indoc class with a river of wide-eyed young fellows with similar aspirations, hearing the good and happy words from a dizzying array of suited, wise old heads who proclaimed, "Hang on boys, we haven't even hired our 1991 captains yet!"
This was 1989. I think that's the first time I even knew what a "career expectation" was and believe me, it was both joyous and terrifying for one who had not even begun to master the craft to contemplate a life of respect, riches and working 10 days a month. But it was out there and it couldn't be taken back. However, I was so worried about the lurking 9-light trip on the electrical panel of a 727 to worry too much about contract language, merger rights, seniority numbers, bidding pitfalls and union politics. That changed almost immediately. On the crew bus for my first unsupervised trip, my hat gingerly perched on my freshly barbered head, a forty-something flight attendant grinned at me and said in excellent Pittsburghese, "That's a fancy new uniform you got there!" I smiled back. Then she said, "You should take a picture for your mom, sweetie." In the crew room, I fidgeted, looking for my captain so that I could introduce myself, wondering with dawning horror if my E6-B was still on the hotel dresser (I had been practicing conversions) when I noticed a clot of pilots solemnly gathered around a bulletin board. There were muttered curses. A red-faced first officer who I judged to be a decade older than me grunted, "If those #$^^ing ******** pukes think I'm gonna be jerking gear for them the rest of my life, they're nuts!" I edged closer, surreptitiously inspecting the shine on my shoes (the FOM was specific about this) and noticed a long list in dot-matrix format stapled to the cork. It was a seniority list, I found, one that included the pilots of a like-sized airline that we had just merged with. Nobody was happy. Among the men around the board was my captain, and I was to later find out, the red-faced F/O was the copilot. After shaking hands and giving my prepared remarks in a quavering voice, I retired to the bathroom, and as I was getting rid of the last of my breakfast, I noticed the scrawled invective, frowning stickers and spleen encircling the stall from top to bottom. It appeared nobody liked their job. Hated the place. Sodom and Gomorrah all round. Moneychangers in the Temple. Later, from my vantage point behind the two gentlemen conducting the aviating portion of my first flight, I was regaled by the both of them comparing their Rolex watches, new cars, girlfriends and most recent vacations. Occasionally they looked out the window. Occasionally. Nobody asked me any questions. I was just amazed I could afford a 1-bedroom studio without roommates and would have been embarrassed to admit my ride was a 1953 Ford pickup with a caved-in fender, recapped tires and a copious oil leak. I move through these forums like an old house I used to live in, with yellowing newspapers strewn about on the floors. I pick them up and glance at the stories they contain, drop them back on the floor and sigh. I flew with a few pretty good people over the next 12 years. Made one lasting friendship. Most however were angry or resigned. Or both. I couldn't identify with a majority of them, or most of the other employees, for that matter. In those days, the mechanics, agents and flight attendants seemed to hate me no matter what the employee number declared, as I was branded A Pilot. Endured a short furlough. Got married and started a family, then lived in constant fear of being able to provide for them as the world changed, apparently for the worse, as far as airline pilots went. In a company that had merged thrice as I was coming on, everyone seemed to have an agenda and wanted to vent - a teeming mass of indignation and uncertainty. And stuff. Comparing stuff. Look at my stuff! Before iPhones, guys carried these photo albums depicting all their stuff in Kodacolor. Or wore it. Remember nugget watches? More mergers, arbitrations, strike preparedness. Politics. Furloughs. Union recalls. Liars lying and fools listening to the lies and lying to themselves about what the liars meant. The second home I purchased had an escape clause in the contract that would let me out as the closing date coincided with the flight attendants' cooling off period ending. Another merger failed and everyone went nuts. My mom died suddenly. Then my dog. Shortly thereafter, my back yard neighbor, an American pilot, one day his wife was brutally shot by the so-called "DC Sniper" as she was leaving a craft store (she lived). My wife was in the same parking lot and heard the report and thought a car had backfired. My kids were with her. Across the cul-de-sac where we lived, my neighbor was the lead FBI agent assigned to the nut job sending anthrax through the mail. 9/11. Horror and chaos. I had just relinquished my captain's seat when they announced 1000 pilots would be furloughed immediately. I didn't need the list to know that while safe for the moment (by this time, I could tell you with certainty my calculated FAE at age 60) I would be deep into the reserve list as a copilot and they wouldn't be finished: that's just all they could handle for downgrades and training. There would be more. Many more. I had seen enough. Realized it wasn't dad's world OR his airline anymore. Everyone was grim. Simmering divisions within our group exploded. We took huge pay and benefit cuts in order to "save" the company with the absolute promise that if we did so, the no-furlough clause would keep everyone working. (Note: anytime anyone makes declarative statements in a time of uncertainty is lying, so assume the opposite. Works like a charm.) Thus began a life apart from the Great Attrition. I still fly for a living. I remember during Indoc back in 1989, we were invited to attend a dinner that ALPA sponsored for new hires. It was billed as a collegial "get to know you" and informal affair at a local steakhouse. What I didn't know is that we would be shut up into a private dining room and handed a union check-off card and asked to sign on, as the reps circulated and watched the proceedings in a vaguely predatory way. Nobody refused membership. It was a little unnerving but I was new to things (all of 23!) and figured if everyone was doing it, it couldn't be bad. It was during that meal that we were told for our infinitesimally small contribution (again, in very declarative terms) that nowhere in the world would we be paid and taken care of, as a professional body, better than as part of this family. Together we were mighty. The great collective at work, so to speak. Some time in 2004, one of my colleagues, a man for whom I had immense respect and who had been my DC-9 line instructor as a new copilot, took his own life when he realized his pension had been terminated 4 years from his scheduled retirement. You see, he had been promised this alone, above all else was sacrosanct and his contribution to the cause would ensure his long term security. In the years since 2002, I have made my own way and thus my own happiness - or misfortune. I could no longer point to the failings of others for my situation. Couldn't rage against the machine. Didn't head to the airport ticked off or strangling on the fear of the next system bid result - or praying maybe this year I would have Christmas off. Negotiated for myself. Actually had to learn my trade rather than depending on some arcane work rule or labor division to keep me in a painted line of ineptitude. Nine tenths of what I read here is the result of the fear of the unknown, authored by people just like me. Think about it. |
This is the most excellent collection of thoughts I've ever read on APC. This needs to be published.
|
Nicely written. Usually I get through the first paragraph of these APC tomes and give it the ol' tl;dr. This one I savored. Thank you.
|
Great post!
Some key things save, save, save $$$$. Have at least a 1-yr supply of $ savings left alone in a separate account for the emergency fund. Assume 0 from any (still left?) pension plan, take advantage of 401K and matchings, and assume you will get 0 social security when you retire. Enjoy the good times right now because before you know it, the industry will be on the down side of the cycle the future - just like it always does. Self-identify as a family man (husband, father, etc) first, and a pilot second. Don't let it define you. |
Excellent post.
I met many pilots who were forced to take the expat route after they were either furloughed or moved back to the right seat. It was heart wrenching listing to the stories, some described by the OP, of those who had their lives destroyed by decisions made by management without any regard to those who gave their careers for that so-called dream job with a major. I wonder what the next generation of new hires are doing to hedge their bets for when the next furlough or merger occurs. Will ALPA provide to their new members to provide advice about such a life changing catestrophic event? |
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